“Olivia wishes to wear an orange and black gown?” Cato tried to imagine his solemn and intense daughter in such a frivolous garment.
“Yes, the color suits her beautifully. I was wondering… well, perhaps you could buy it for her. Ellen could make adjustments to the fit. It could be her birthday present.” Phoebe was warming to her theme. “It’s her birthday next month, you know.”
“Uh… yes, I did know that,” Cato responded. “I’m not in the habit of forgetting important dates.”
“Oh, I wasn’t saying you were,” Phoebe assured him hastily. “I just thought to give you an idea in case you didn’t have one.”
“How kind,” Cato murmured.
“May I purchase it for her?”
“You may. Just make sure that what you choose for yourself has some practical application. I’ll bespeak a private parlor in the inn here. Try not to keep me waiting too long.”
“These things can take time,” Phoebe said, but she was speaking to his back as he went in search of ale.
An hour later Phoebe returned to the Hand and Shears. “Where’s Lord Granville?” she demanded of the landlord.
“Allow me to escort you, my lady.” The man bowed low with a deference that made Phoebe grin. For once she felt like the marchioness of Granville. She tossed her head in its fine plumed new hat and followed the landlord with regal dignity.
He threw open a door on the first landing. “Lady Granville, my lord.”
Cato, deep in thought, was in a chair before the fire, his feet propped on the andirons, his hands curled around a tankard of ale. He turned his head, then rose slowly to his feet.
“Well, my lady, you’ve certainly not wasted your time.”
Phoebe glowed. “Isn’t it handsome?” She stepped into the chamber, patting the folds of the dark green broadcloth skirt. She gave a little tug to the fitted jacket as it sat on her hips. “The silver lace was very expensive, but the dressmaker said it was the height of fashion.”
“Fashion does tend to be expensive,” Cato agreed. This incarnation of his wife he could not fault. She cut an impeccably elegant figure.
“And the britches are a perfect fit. Wasn’t that lucky?” Phoebe pivoted and was about to haul up the back panel of the skirt when she realized the landlord still stood in the door, rather wide-eyed. “Thank you, mine host,” she said loftily and waited until he’d bowed himself out.
Then she scooped up the rear panel. “Do they look all right, my lord?”
Cato considered that his wife’s voluptuous curves delineated by the britches constituted a sight to be kept for his eyes only. He said repressively. “It’s more a question of how do they feel? No one’s going to see them, I trust.”
“I suppose not.” Phoebe peered over her shoulder. “Do you think my backside’s too big?”
Cato briefly closed his eyes. “There’s a time and a place for all subjects, but this is neither the time nor the place for that one.”
“Oh. I just wondered,” she said, allowing the skirt to fall back. “I’m not the same shape as Diana.”
“No,” he agreed dryly. “Come and eat.” He went to the table set with cold meat, bread, and cheese. “Shall I carve you some ham?”
“Thank you,” Phoebe said. Not a subject to be pursued, clearly, but he might have given her some kind of disclaimer. “I purchased the gown for Olivia,” she said. “But the dressmaker wished to add some more lace to the collar, so she’ll send it to the manor when it’s finished.”
“Good,” Cato said.
They were almost at the end of their meal when the landlord knocked at the door. “Beggin‘ yer pardon, m’lord, but there’s soldiers in the taproom who’ve jest outrun a raidin’ party of deserters from the king’s army. The deserters were in search of plunder… well armed, they say.” He adjusted his cravat with an air of importance. “Thought you might like to know, sir.”
“You thought right,” Cato said. “My thanks.” He rose from the table. “Finish your meal, Phoebe. I need to talk to these men.” He left her as he spoke, and Phoebe looked down at her plate of ham with a moue of distaste.
She seemed to have no appetite anymore. And it wasn’t the prospect of skirmishers on the road. That held no terrible fears, at least not in Cato’s company. But why did he always relegate her to some fuzzy nest where the hard realities of life weren’t to intrude? Had he learned nothing about her?
In the taproom, Cato listened to the troopers account. Ordinarily a party of disaffected royalist soldiers, one of the many who’d taken to the country roads around the city in search of plunder, would have caused him little concern. His bay charger could outrun almost any horse in the country. But with a pillion passenger, one who was terrified of horses, things could be a little more difficult.
He gestured to the landlord. “Have my horse saddled and ask Lady Granville to meet me in the stable yard.” He counted out coins and tossed them onto the counter. “Gentlemen, I’m in your debt.”
“Watch for them on the Eynsham road, sir.”
“Aye. And have a drink on me.” Cato raised a hand in farewell and left the taproom amid a chorus of goodwill.
Phoebe, obeying the summons, emerged into the stable yard. Cato looked her over. “In that habit, you’ll be able to ride astride the pillion pad now. We’ll be able to make more speed.”
“Because of the renegades?”
“Perhaps,” he said, helping her onto the horse. He mounted in front of her.
Phoebe slipped her hands beneath his cloak and gripped his belt. She felt much more secure riding astride, and there was something very solidly comforting about Cato’s back. She leaned forward and rested her forehead for an instant between his shoulder blades.
Chapter 12
The shot crossed the bay’s withers just as they were approaching the village of Eynsham. It was so close it almost ruffled the animal’s mane, but the charger was accustomed to the fire of a battlefield and didn’t so much as start in alarm.
Phoebe didn’t immediately realize what had happened. She heard the crack and the whine but for a minute couldn’t place the sound. Then there came a bloodcurdling shriek of triumph, and a party of men broke from the trees on the path just behind them.
“What is it? Is it the deserters?” Phoebe gasped, swiveling to look over her shoulder.
“I imagine so,” Cato said, sounding utterly calm. “I’ve been expecting them these last two miles. Hold on tight now, because we’re going to outrun them.”
Phoebe circled his narrow waist and clung on as the bay broke into a gallop. Another musket shot whistled close to Phoebe’s ear, and she couldn’t hold back a little scream.
“There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Cato said, as coolly as before, over the thundering of the bay’s hooves on the lane.
“There isn’t?” Phoebe found that hard to believe, but Cato’s calm was infectious. She glanced over her shoulder again. “Some of them have gone off into the field at the side.”
“I was afraid of that. They’re going to try to cut us off at the corner.” Cato abruptly swung the bay to the left.
Phoebe stared at the massive hedge looming up before them. There was no way through it. And then she understood. They were going over it.
“Oh God!” she whispered, closing her eyes tightly, burying her face against Cato’s back, her hands gripping his belt at the front so that she felt as if her body was an extension of his.
The bay rose into the air. Phoebe’s stomach dropped, her gut turned to water. She bit her lip and tasted blood. The hedge scraped the bay’s belly as he soared over. His back hooves caught the top and then he thundered down into a stream the other side of the hedge. Icy water flew upward, soaking the hem of Phoebe’s skirt as the animal stumbled to his knees.
Cato hauled him up and the bay struggled onto the bank. Cato swore when he realized the horse was limping. There were shouts from the far side of the hedge, but their pursuers were clearly not going to follow them over the jump.